The Last Protector (45 page)

The fight was over almost as soon as it started. The soldier was strong but slow, and Scrornuck easily bounced him off the walls a few times before grabbing him in a headlock and shoving him to the floor. The audience murmured appreciatively, and several heads nodded.

"Kill him,” the commander ordered.

"Why?” Scrornuck asked.

"Kill!” The voice was louder and more insistent. “Kill!"

"No!” Scrornuck got to his feet, planting a foot in his opponent's chest to keep him on the floor, and folded his arms defiantly. The murmuring from the audience picked up a nervous edge.

"Kill!” The officer screamed, no longer needing a microphone.

"No,” Scrornuck replied calmly, flipping the officer a rude gesture. The audience erupted into nervous, excited discussion. A moment later, a doctor nervously approached, accompanied by two white-coated orderlies. “Everything is all right,” the doctor said, in a voice that led Scrornuck to believe he was speaking mostly to himself. He edged closer, offering his hand as a gesture of friendship. Scrornuck took it, and an instant later he felt the cold pinprick of a needle in his forearm. A few seconds later he felt nothing at all.

"Mister Saughblade,” a soft voice whispered, “are you in there?"

Scrornuck opened one eye, slowly. A short, rather ordinary-looking man in a white doctor's coat looked back at him. He spoke in a tongue different from that of the soldiers, one that Scrornuck had heard some other place, some other time.

"Wha—?” Scrornuck started to say, but the Doctor placed a finger over his lips, signaling silence. Scrornuck contented himself with nodding.

"Good.” The Doctor locked the door, stood on a chair and placed a black cap over the security camera's lens. Then he picked up a chart and walked around the bed to inspect his patient. “One hundred ninety-eight centimeters, sixty-eight kilograms. You're a hand taller and a stone lighter—not a perfect fit, but not bad.” Noticing Scrornuck running his fingers across the huge dragon tattoo, he added, “Yes, and you got that. Well, dead men can't be picky—we had to work with what was available. Sit up, please."

Scrornuck complied, and felt his scalp become warm and tingly as the Doctor massaged a greasy salve into it. “Sorry they had to shave you,” the Doctor said, “but the Reverse Schuffmann process doesn't like hair.” Scrornuck instinctively reached up and felt a coarse, greasy stubble. “This stuff works quickly,” the Doctor said reassuringly. “In a month or so you'll have your old mop again."

He then produced a wad of bright red cloth. “Here, put this on. I think you'll like it better than that silly gown.” Scrornuck slowly unfolded the cloth. It was a kilt—one whose pleats were already sewn in, one he could wrap around his waist in seconds. What a great idea, he thought, as he secured several snaps and fastened the belt.

"You shouldn't be running around barefoot, either.” The Doctor handed him a pair of tall, dark-brown leather boots encrusted with silvery mechanisms. “I expect you'll find out what the gadgets do.” Scrornuck slipped into the boots and walked around the room, enjoying the way they moved with him.

The Doctor reached into his black bag one more time, coming up with a gray iron sword-handle. “Do you remember this?” he asked. Scrornuck nodded. “Good,” the Doctor said, placing the weapon in Scrornuck's hands. “Let's see if it recognizes you.” Scrornuck took a deep breath and gave the red leather grip a tentative squeeze. The glassy, almost transparent, blade jumped out, its point a luminous white, its edges sparkling like golden fire. He circled the room, flicking the blade back and forth, finally carving his name in the wall.

"You've been sleeping the better part of a week,” the Doctor said, opening the door. “I hope you're ready to work.” Glancing at the many colorful rings on his fingers, he set off down the hall.

"Where are we?” Scrornuck asked. His voice sounded different, deeper than he remembered.

"Kurzitskogorsk-Seven,” the Doctor replied. “A secret military lab, dedicated to producing the perfect soldier. They're growing super-warriors in vats, and filling their heads with machine minds.” After inspecting the rings on his fingers, the Doctor made a right turn. “You're supposed to be the prototype.” His voice turned angry and bitter. “Bastards. They captured my agent, burned his mind away with drugs and electricity, and stuffed one of their obedient artificial-soldier minds into its place.” He chuckled, but Scrornuck detected no humor in the sound. “Or so they thought. I got there first, and it was so easy to switch files.” He tapped Scrornuck's head. “They don't know it's you in there, Mister Saughblade."

As the Doctor looked at his rings and made another turn, Scrornuck tried to make sense of what he'd just heard. The barflies in Roswell had spun tales of secret labs, but super warriors? Machine minds? Waking up in somebody else's body? He shook his head and gave up.

"Ah,” the Doctor said as they arrived at a locked office door, “here we are. Can you open this?"

Scrornuck extended Ol’ Red's blade a bit and let it slide into the lock. Caressing the grip, feeling it purr and pulsate, he let the sword's fibers locate and delicately move the tumblers. Seconds later, the lock clicked and the door opened, revealing an undistinguished office.

"Can you make sense of this?” the Doctor asked, pointing to a screen, on which writing glowed a soft green. Scrornuck stared, blinked—and again his Gift worked almost instantly. He didn't understand everything the words meant, but he could read them and speak them in the Doctor's tongue.

"Look for something like ‘destruct’ or ‘sterilize,'” the Doctor instructed, pressing buttons that made different words appear on the screen.

A noise from outside interrupted their work, a guard working his way down the hall. Scrornuck padded silently to the door, and when the guard entered, he quickly grabbed the man, covered his mouth, and knocked him unconscious.

The screen displayed more messages, until Scrornuck suddenly said, “There.” He pointed and carefully translated the message.

"That's it.” The Doctor pressed a final button. “Fifteen minutes should be plenty. Let's get out of here.” They moved carefully into the hall, locking the door behind them. “Goodbye, Kurzitskogorsk-Seven,” he whispered, “and good riddance."

Scrornuck followed the Doctor through a maze of drab, gray hallways lit by dim, bare light bulbs. They descended stairs, found themselves at a dead end, backtracked, turned here, turned there, and were soon lost. The Doctor, increasingly agitated, consulted the big watch hanging from his belt. “We've got six minutes to get out of here."

"Then what?” Scrornuck asked.

"The whole place blows sky-high.” They came to an intersection, paused for a moment, and made a right turn. “I gave the command to activate the emergency site-sterilization system."

They reached another corner. The Doctor chose a left turn as he continued speaking, more to himself than to Scrornuck. “Dangerous stuff they're doing here, end-of-the-world stuff, they've got no business playing with toys like that.” He pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall. “Well, let's see if this is the way out..."

"Oh, shit,” Scrornuck muttered as the doors shut behind them and locked with an ominous click—they were back in the arena. The rings of seats surrounding them were packed with doctors in white coats and military officers in dress uniforms, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in every available seat. In the third row, in a special box decorated with flags and insignia, sat a man in a particularly gaudy uniform, covered with ribbons and surrounded by attendants.

"The Supreme Commissar,” the Doctor said. “Just our luck."

"This is what you made me travel all night to see?” the Commissar demanded of the officer sitting next to him, the one who'd been in command the last time Scrornuck had stood in this arena. “A skinny boy in a dress?"

"No, Commissar,” the officer stammered. “This is an earlier experiment.” He shifted uneasily, then his face suddenly brightened and he issued a curt command to another officer. “But as long as they are here, let the demonstration continue.” He pointed to a door on the far side of the arena. “Your Excellency, I give you the Perfect Soldier!"

"What's he saying?” the Doctor whispered, and Scrornuck realized that the Commissar and the officer had been conversing in a different tongue. He began to translate, but as he started speaking a door on the far side of the room opened and six soldiers entered, each close to seven feet tall and massively muscular. “Never mind,” the Doctor said.

Scrornuck strode forward to confront the six enormous soldiers. As he tried to stare them down, he found himself wiggling his toes nervously. As if in response, the folded-over tops of his boots unrolled, wrapping around his legs until they extended several inches above the knee.

There was no time to wonder what the boots might be doing—the six monstrous soldiers came at him all at once. He was surrounded, and there was nowhere to go but up. Without thinking, he tightened his legs and jumped.

The boots made a sound like an oddly-fuzzed guitar note, and he sailed high into the air—above his attackers, above the seats surrounding the arena, to the roof, a good thirty feet above the floor. Not exactly sure how he'd gotten up here, he grabbed a steel truss and dangled by one arm, taking some satisfaction from the Supreme Commissar's expression of slack-jawed amazement.

The soldiers turned to attack the Doctor. Scrornuck dropped to the floor, the boots making the same strange noise as he landed. He drew Ol’ Red and fought like a demon, tearing the warriors, running them through, ripping them open, until in a matter of seconds they were all either dead or soon to be that way. With a half-smile he turned to face the Supreme Commissar, and raised the front of his kilt in an extremely rude gesture.

"Nice work, Mister Saughblade,” the Doctor whispered.

Scrornuck heard the sound of boots on the floor outside. “We're still in trouble."

The Doctor looked thoughtfully at Scrornuck's boots. “Do you think you could handle a thirty-foot drop?"

Scrornuck looked at the ceiling, about thirty feet above, and nodded. “It's worth a try."

"Pick me up,” the Doctor whispered. As Scrornuck complied, he said, “get ready to fall—now!"

The air around them shimmered. Then the arena seemed to twist around itself and was gone. For an instant they hung comically in bitterly cold darkness. Scrornuck suppressed his momentary panic as they fell, struggling to keep his feet beneath him. They landed in a few feet of snow, unhurt as the boots soaked up the impact.

"This way,” the Doctor said as Scrornuck set him down, “I want to see something.” He set off toward the woods, staring at the device that hung from his belt. Scrornuck wondered if it was an ornate compass, or perhaps a pocket-watch. They walked nearly a quarter-mile through the deep snow, Scrornuck hugging his arms to his bare chest, trying to stay warm. Suddenly, the Doctor stopped. “Here we are. Let's see how things worked out.” The air shimmered around them, seemed to turn inside-out.

A four-story building, easily a city block on a side, burned before them, smoke and flame coming from every window. A series of small explosions blew chunks out of the roof, releasing balls of orange fire into the sky. “Uh-huh.” The Doctor looked at a ring on his left hand, one that sported a small emerald, a jewel so bright green that it seemed to glow. “Mission accomplished, Seamus Harrington,” he whispered. “Rest in peace.” Another explosion shook the building, and the walls caved in. Sparks swirled into the sky, flames leaped up briefly, then settled down into a fire that looked like it could burn for days. “Well, Mister Saughblade,” he said, his voice again all business, “it looks like our work here is done."

Scrornuck nodded, not really sure what had just happened, but strangely content that he'd been able to help the Doctor accomplish his mission. With a small smile, he wiggled his toes in those wonderful new boots.

"And that's how I got ‘em,” Scrornuck said, finishing both the story and his beer.

Big Wolf stared for a moment, obviously bewildered by the story. Then he grinned, slapped Scrornuck on the back and laughed. “And they call
me
a bullshit artist!"

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!” Scrornuck yelled over the moan of the wind. He stood in knee-deep snow, under a dark gray sky streaked with darker gray clouds. A dreary gray disc, no brighter than a full moon on a cloudy night, provided the only light. Blowing snow stung his arms and legs, and Nalia shivered as she huddled against him, trying to keep warm in her skimpy outfit.

"The streams must have shifted!” Jape pulled his hood up over his head, set its heater to maximum, and went to work with the Traveler, trying to figure out just where they were. A stomach-turning moment earlier, they'd been standing along the highway, bidding farewell to the bikers. Then Jape activated the Traveler—and something had gone wrong. Scrornuck felt seasick, there was a foul taste in his mouth, and instead of the pleasant summer warmth of Nalia's world, they'd landed in this snowstorm.

"I'm freezing!” Nalia said. Her teeth were starting to chatter. Scrornuck took his plaid from the pack, draped it over both their shoulders, and held her close. He felt her shivering stop as she gave him a little kiss and said, “Mmm, that's better.” For a moment, he considered telling her what sharing a blanket in this manner implied in the traditions of his people, but thought better of it.

Jape pointed more or less to the east. “We need to go about a half mile that way."

They moved slowly, through snow that at times drifted waist-high. “What is this place?” Nalia demanded. “What happened to summer?"

"This
is
summer,” Jape said. “This world had a war, with weapons that could destroy whole cities in an instant.” He pointed at the dim gray disc in the sky. “The smoke from the war blocks the sun. So it's cold, and nothing much lives here—all the people died a century ago."